30 In Touch with Nature. 



plaguing " what of it ?" thrusts itself forward at 

 every discovery you make, and the predetermined 

 wish to be a poet whenever a flower was found 

 or bird sang vanishes. Wrapped in a stout coat, 

 behind a grand old oak, and not weary from long 

 tramping, the outlook seems favorable for indulging 

 in some grand flight ; but no, the flower would 

 not lead me, nor the bird's song suggest a single 

 thought. It was vexing at first, but should not 

 have been. I had my pleasant thoughts as I wan- 

 dered, and what more could I ask ? It is too soon 

 to discuss even the promises of the coming year ; 

 far too soon to consider the fruit thereof. It was 

 but an intimation that was offered when I ventured 

 into the field, and this is too delicate to be dis- 

 sected ; and, to do it justice, we must dream of it, 

 not wrangle over it. 



The day draws to a close, but not the storm ; 

 yet I have not lost faith. The flower is still mine, 

 and the songs of the brave birds still linger. 

 Surely spring is near at hand when Nature, that so 

 often laughs at our puny efforts to force her to 

 speak out, comes unasked from hidden haunts and 

 vouchsafes us intimations. 



